Situation Normal
by Fhulhi the Crazy
Summary: The only bright spot in his day was the absence of a certain ulcer-inducing idiot-savant assassin.


**Disclaimer:** Malik, Altaïr, and Assassin's Creed are property of Ubisoft Entertainment.

**Warnings:** Mild violence and some creative insults. Nothing really terrible.

**Prompt:** "Altair trolling the shit out of Malik while he's trying to work."

**Author's Note: **I filled this prompt on the AC kink meme all the way back in January, and I should have posted this then. I'm a very lazy poster, I know. This is the first fan fiction I've written since 2002. I just couldn't help myself; the prompt was fabulous.

* * *

><p>The Bureau was quiet save for the scratch of a quill on paper. Malik savored the silence as he worked. His day had begun abruptly in the predawn hours, an injured young assassin all but falling through the roof entrance and startling the Dai out of an already restless sleep. Once he had tended to the man's wounds and sent him on his way, Malik had continued with his day in a more usual manner. He met with several informants, giving and receiving choice bits of information, and then completed several small errands about the city.<p>

The novice had made a particularly sloppy kill, Malik had been told, and the city was buzzing with nervous energy. As a result, the guards had been especially vicious with suspicion. He shifted slightly on his stool, and felt his bruised hip twinge with discomfort. Malik's brow drew down into a scowl; an unavoidable hazard today. He blew a hard breath from his nose and forced his attention back to the record book in front of him. The only bright spot in his day was the absence of a certain ulcer-inducing idiot-savant assassin.

Gradually, the tension began to seep from the dark haired man's neck and shoulders, and he became engrossed in his writing. A barely heard rustle and a flash of white in the corner of his eye had them tightening again._ Please, let it be anyone but-_

"Safety and peace, Brother."

_Altaïr._ Malik's hand tightened convulsively around the quill. He consciously forced the muscles to relax and resumed writing. "Novice. To what do I owe this displeasure?"

There was no answer, and the Dai's mouth pursed in annoyance. Sharp words rose in his throat before he swallowed them down. Altaïr could state his business, or he could leave. Malik fervently hoped it was the latter. He had much work to be done and no time to waste on fools.

A few moments passed as Altaïr stood in the doorway staring. The former assassin felt his eye twitch in irritation. More time passed, and _still_ the infernal man stared! "What," Malik ground out from behind clenched teeth, "do you _want_, Novice?" Silence greeted him. His head flew up, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

Altaïr's golden eyes briefly met his before sliding away, hiding a flash of mischief. Still quiet, the white clad assassin began a slow prowl around the edges of the room, rifling through a few containers, leafing through the pages of a discarded book, and fiddling with the various odds and ends left to lay on shelves and tables. Malik followed the man's slow progression and felt his temper begin to fray. Soon Altaïr had come nearly full circle. He stopped at the end of the Bureau's heavy wooden counter, a scant few feet from where the Dai sat. The assassin leant casually against its scarred and pitted surface and resumed staring with a barely discernible smirk.

The quill in Malik's hand threatened to snap.

Glowering furiously at the insufferable man, Malik set his quill down with exaggerated care and slid from the stool. He stalked across the short distance separating them and leaned forward into Altaïr's personal space. Quick as a snake, his good arm shot forward, snagging a handful of white tunic, and yanked. Altaïr's eyes widened in surprise as he was hauled halfway over the counter; his arms pin wheeled momentarily before slamming down onto the edge to steady himself.

"Tell me what you want, you imbecile," snarled Malik, "before I kill you and leave your body to rot in the sun!"

Surprisingly, the assassin's tiny smirk widened into a toothsome grin. In a sudden move, he pulled himself the rest of the way across the counter, breaking Malik's grip and nearly bowling the man over. Leaving Malik sputtering behind him, Altaïr walked briskly past the curtains separating the living quarters from the rest of the Bureau. He glanced around curiously, ignoring the Dai's increasingly irate noises. He glanced briefly around the small space, and his eyes brightened as he spotted a slightly battered scimitar mounted on the far wall.

As Altaïr made a beeline for the sword, Malik trailed behind gripping his hair in frustration. "What do you think you are doing, Novice? Get out of here!"

Altaïr glanced over his shoulder, still grinning. "I am simply curious, Brother. I have never been in this part of the Bureau before." He removed the scimitar from the wall and gave it a few experimental swings.

"And you were never meant too!" Striding across the room, Malik snatched the blade from the other man's hand and carefully placed it back on the wall. When he turned around, Altaïr had flitted off to the opposite side of the room and was now standing at the Dai's small scribe desk flipping through a small, worn journal.

"'I have seen that same woman four times now by the fruit merchant's stall, staring…'" Altaïr read aloud. He leered. "Have an admirer do we, Malik?"

Malik's face reddened alarmingly. He rushed over, shouldering the other man out of the way and slamming the book shut. "This is private, you thrice-damned son of a camel! Now leave!" He slapped away Altaïr's hand as the man made to grab for the journal. "Altaïr!"

The assassin danced back and plucked a paperweight off the desk, tossing it from hand to hand as he headed for the front room. It was the final straw. There was nearly an audible sound as Malik's temper snapped. In a rage, the Dai snatched up a heavy book and lobbed it at Altaïr's head. The man ducked, lunged through the doorway behind him, and vaulted the Bureau's counter. Malik rushed after him flinging anything he could get his hands on. When he reached the counter, there was a lull in their scuffle.

While the Dai stood panting with fury, Altaïr gave a flippant salute, the light catching on the long white feather he held. "My thanks for your generous hospitality, Brother!" he said. Malik snarled and pulled from beneath the counter a brace of throwing knives. They whistled through the air, sinking deep into the door frame as Altaïr vanished through the doorway and out of the Bureau with a laugh.

Malik stalked over and pulled free the knives; he returned them to their hiding spot and slumped onto his stool. Massaging his temple, the dark haired man let out a gusty sigh. "Stupid novice," he muttered. After a moment, he picked up the abandoned quill, dipped it into the ink pot, and began to finish his work.

He was smiling.


End file.
